


I Wandered Through Your Darkened Land All Night

by SinnamonSpider



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sam, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Hallucifer, M/M, Nightmares, Sibling Incest, Song Lyrics, Top Dean, Wincest Writing Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 04:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14488371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: When Dean imagines their first time, he’s never imagined it like this.He’s imagined it a lot. For years now. And in a dozen different ways.But never like this.





	I Wandered Through Your Darkened Land All Night

**Author's Note:**

> My response to the April Wincest Writing Challenge on Tumblr. Prompt was milestones: mine was first time having sex.
> 
> Title and lyrics from "There Will Be Time" by Mumford and Sons ft Baaba Maal.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply. Feedback makes me smile.

_In the cold light I live_   
_To love and adore you_   
_It's all that I am_   
_It's all that I have_

 

When Dean imagines their first time, he’d never imagined it like this.

He’s imagined it a lot. _Fantasized_ , if you wanna be accurate. For years now. And in a dozen different ways. Slow and loving. Whisky-fueled and aching. Rough and bone-meltingly hot. He’s logged a lot of hours on that last one in particular.

Hell, he’s even imagined it sweetly awkward; fumbling with uncertain caresses, falling off the bed, laughter that goes breathless with the next tentative touch.

But never like this.

It’s never started off with Sam’s blood-curdling screams ripping through the night, tearing Dean out of sound sleep with his heart pounding and his hands searching, frantic, for Sam’s shoulders, to hold him still as he thrashes in the sweat-soaked sheets.

It’s never involved Sam sitting bolt upright, terrified eyes wide and unseeing as he keeps screaming, and Dean’s been dying to have Sam scream his name for longer than he can remember, but not like this - never like this.

He catches a blow to the jaw that makes him see stars and Sam’s ongoing cries are barely enough to reach him through the daze, but he shakes off the stupor and gets his hands back on his brother, wrapping him in a bear hug that’s more to keep Sam from hurting either of them than it is to comfort him.

Sam writhes in his grip and Dean holds on, never more aware than he is now of how fucking _strong_ Sam is, how big and powerful, and somehow it hurts worse, that re-learned knowledge, because for all Sam’s strength and power, he’s still screaming his throat raw.

And all because of the Devil in his head.

Dean narrowly avoids another wild flail of one of Sam’s oak-like arms and gets hold of his hand, digs hard into the half-healed cut in Sam’s palm. “Sam,” he barks, sharp and firm and harsher than he means to, but he’s trying to rein in his own terror. “Sam, wake up.”

The screaming dies down, but Sam is still shaking like a leaf in Dean’s arms and his eyes are still panic-wide and blank. Dean works his thumb harder against the cut, heedless of the blood that seeps from the edges of the wound. They’ll clean up later. A little blood is the least of their worries.

“Sam,” he says again, softer this time, lips right against the shell of Sam’s ear, nose brushing sweaty curls. “Sam, it’s okay. You’re okay. I’m here.”

Sam moans, a sound that would strike fear into Dean’s heart if it hadn’t already been beaten out by terror-fueled shrieking. Still, Dean winds himself tighter around his brother, just in case. “Sammy,” he croons, low and sweet, infusing the word with all the love he can muster, dragging it to the surface, above the fear and worry and everything else. “Sammy, it’s okay. C’mon, baby, wake up.”

The endearment slips out without his permission and if Dean had energy to spare, he’d be backpedaling and blushing and stuttering out excuses, but Sam’s starting to come around, lashes fluttering and little whimpers issuing from his throat and Dean couldn’t give less of a shit about his little slip.

“...Dean?” Sam’s voice is raw, throat lashed open by his screams, and the little boy fragility of it punches Dean square in the chest. He pushes past the lump rising in his throat. “Yeah, Sam, it’s me. I’m here with you. I’m here.” He rocks them together, letting go with one hand to thread through Sam’s damp hair.

Sam shivers violently in his grasp, turns and buries his face in Dean’s throat. “Dean,” he manages, breath a warm, wet rush against Dean’s skin and now not only is Dean’s heart doing backflips, but his dick is perking up and now is so not the time.

He narrows his focus to the rabbit-fast thrum of Sam’s pulse, trembling through the soft skin under Dean’s fingers where they’re closed around Sam’s wrist. “Okay, Sammy, okay,” he murmurs, nonsense words meant to soothe, not to make sense. “You’re okay. It’s just you and me.”

Sam drags in a shuddering breath and Dean’s hand slips from his hair down to his back, rubbing in big, comforting circles. “That’s it, sweetheart. Breathe.”

The pet names just keep slipping out, but Dean’s counting on Sam being out of it enough to not call him on any of them. Sam’s voice is still rough, abraded, when he stumbles over his words. “Dean, he was - you were...I couldn’t - ” He chokes on the thoughts he can’t finish and they’re already mashed together so tightly that they’re practically one person, but Dean manages to drag Sam just a fraction closer.

“It wasn’t real, Sammy,” he reassures him. “None of it was real. Whatever you saw. We’re here, you and me, and we’re safe and okay and fine.”

“I know,” Sam says, and Dean feels him swallow hard. “He told me it wasn’t real. That he was just doing it for fun.”

Dean curses Lucifer silently, not for the first or last time. He’s not even here - fucking rotting down in the Cage, and yet he’s in Sam’s head, twisting his mind, forcing God know what horrible images before his eyes. And Cas, who tore down the wall that Death had put up - but Dean cuts that thought off short, can’t think like that with Sam clinging to him like a barnacle.

“What can I do, Sammy?” he hears himself ask. “How can I help?” Because he feels so fucking helpless, just holding Sam like he was a kid with a regular nightmare, not a man who’d been tormented by Satan for hundreds of years. It’s not enough - how could it be? But he doesn’t know what else he can do. Not for the first time, he wishes he could take on Sam’s burden.

Sam, even emotionally laid open as he is, know what Dean is thinking because of course he does, because he’s fucking Sam. “You are helping.”

“Not - not enough,” Dean forces out, hating the way his voice cracks, betraying him.

Sam drags himself away just enough to look Dean in the face. His eyes are still wide, face still pale, temples still glimmering with sweat. He looks like hell. He looks beautiful.

“Then kiss me,” Sam demands, so quiet Dean might have missed it if they weren’t occupying the same particles of space. But Dean does hear it, and his heart stops in his chest.

“Sam,” he protests, sounding weak to his own ears. He’s been battling this thing between them for years, to the point where arguing is just reflex now, but Sam’s broken-open face is tearing away at all his defenses.

Sam pushes close again, tucking himself into Dean until their lips are brushing so lightly. “Please, Dean,” he begs, so soft and pleading that Dean hasn’t got a hope in hell. “I need you.”

And that’s it: Dean’s own walls come crashing down and he closes the barely-there gap between them, catching Sam’s lips in a slow, sweet kiss.

Sam makes a sound that vibrates through both their mouths: a low, desperate sound that lights a fire in Dean’s brain and sends sparks tingling through his limbs. He pushes his fingers into Sam’s sweat-damp hair and knows, somehow more than ever before, that he’s holding his entire world cradled here in his hands.

Sam makes another noise and if Dean had to identify this one, the only thing he could think to call it is _hungry_. His brother climbs into his lap, a gesture so familiar that Dean could cry; Sam, trembling and sleep-sweaty, seeking comfort from a nightmare in the sure embrace of his big brother. But the nostalgia is overwhelmed by Sam’s roaming hands, that slip under Dean’s t-shirt to clutch at bare skin, and by the hard, heated length that presses against Dean’s crotch, insistent and so deliciously unexpected that Dean lets slip a noise of his own: a wanton, greedy moan that makes him flush even as it leaves his lips.

“Yeah,” Sam mutters, breaking the kiss to voice his agreement. “Dean, God…”

Dean bites his lip as Sam rocks against him, deliberate and sure. He’s not sure that God would be too pleased with any of this, but Sam’s teeth are scraping over that spot just behind his ear that makes his knees turn to water and he can’t spare a single brain cell to care about what fucking God might think. He dives his own hands under Sam’s shirt, raking his fingers over too-prominent ribs, pausing to tug experimentally at a nipple that stiffens under his touch. Sam gives a sharp inhale, rolling his hips into Dean’s own and they both moan this time.

Dean’s pretty happy here, making out like teenagers, and he’s pretty sure he could come just from this, especially if Sam keeps undulating the way he is. But Sam is mumbling under his breath and when Dean focuses long enough to hear the words, he feels his heart falter and then pick up double-time.

“Dean, want you to fuck me, please Dean, fuck me fuck me please, need you to - ”

“Sam!” Dean shakes Sam gently, slides his hands out from Sam’s shirt to get them back on his face, stroking his thumb gently over Sam’s mouth. “Sammy, take it easy. Take it slow.”

He captures his brother’s lips in another kiss, slow and deep, and their tongues roll together, warm and wet and sinuous. But Sam pulls back. “We can take it slow next time,” he insists. Dean shakes his head. “Sam, look. We can’t just - dive into this. We don’t know what - I don’t know what I’m doing, at least.”

Sam is tugging at his belt buckle, long fingers fumbling with the clasp. “It’s not rocket science, Dean.”

Dean covers Sam’s hands with his own. “Sammy, please. I don’t want to rush.”

Sam drops his eyes to their joined hands, then lifts them up again, and there’s still terror lurking behind the lust in his blown-out eyes. “Dean. I need you to get him out of my head.”

“I will, Sam, you know I will. I’ll do anything I can to - ”

“Fuck him out of my head, Dean.”

Dean almost laughs - the words sound so absurd, like a bad porno. But the laughter dies in his throat when he sees that Sam is dead serious.

“Sam, I can’t - ”

“You gotta, Dean, please. I need you to. I need you.” He clutches Dean’s collar in hands that are still shaking. “Drown him out, Dean. Help me drown him out.”

Dean groans, lost as ever to his brother’s begging. “Okay, Sammy,” he says, defeated. “Okay. But I don’t know - I’ve never - ” He bites back his words, leaving sentences that seem like they’ll never be finished. “I won’t hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Sam assures him. He smiles, a bit of sunshine fighting through the clouds. “You could never.”

“I might, ‘cause I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing,” Dean said darkly. Sam rolls his eyes and oh, that exasperation is a beautiful thing.

“It’s no different than a girl, Dean.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue, but Sam lunges forward and seals their mouths together, cutting him off. They neck for another few minutes, until the weight of their words has lifted, replaced with desire clamouring to be sated.

“Okay,” Dean gasps, breaking free. “What do we do?”

Sam clambers to his feet, disappearing to the bathroom. He returns seconds later with a small bottle Dean knows well - hey, sometimes you run out and what’s a brother good for if not to borrow stuff from?

Sam takes a minute to strip off his shirt, sleep pants and boxers, and when his dick springs free, slapping against his stomach, Dean actually says “Guh,” out loud. Sam manages a grin. “Thanks?” he says, sounding almost shy.

“Don’t say thanks, that’s weird,” Dean says immediately. He eyes Sam for a minute more before standing to remove his own clothes. “Thank God I’m doing the fucking.”

“This time,” Sam says, voice heavy with promise, and Dean’s honestly surprised by the full-body shiver that works down his spine at the words.

Sam lies down on his bed, legs spreading easily, one knee cocked up. He strokes himself lightly, staring at Dean from under hooded lids, and Dean can only watch for a few seconds before need propels him forward, knocking Sam’s hand away and wrapping his own around his brother’s impressive cock.

He jerks Sam the same way he likes - they are brothers, after all - and Sam writhes for a minute or two before pushing the bottle of lube at Dean. “C’mon, Dean, let’s go,” he says breathlessly. “There’ll be time for that later.”

 _Later_ sends a thrill through Dean’s brain at the idea that this isn’t gonna be a one and done, that Sam wants more of this, that he’s willing to give Dean more. He allows himself one stroke, feeling his fingers slip in the precome drooling from the tip of his cock, and Sam makes a noise, low in his throat, at the sight of his brother’s glistening cockhead. “Hurry up, Dean, please.”

“Feel like a cad,” Dean mutters, kneeing his way in between Sam’s spread legs.

“Will you still respect me in the morning?” Sam jokes lightly, even as he’s coating Dean’s fingers with the cool lube. Dean snorts, but his breath catches in his throat as Sam guides his hand to the shadowy space behind his balls. “Feels like I should at least give you a blowie or something,” he chokes out, still talking to distract himself from the feeling of his finger sliding, slick and smooth, into warm, tight heat. “Oh, fuck.”

“That’s the only kind of talking I want to hear from you,” Sam says tightly, eyelids fluttering as Dean slips in deeper. Sam lets go of his wrist and Dean withdraws, pushes back in just to hear Sam’s breathy gasp. “Dean, God. More.”

Dean adds another finger, twisting gently in the clutch of Sam’s body. He’s got a rough idea of the reason for prep, knows it’s important to stretch Sam carefully, but his decades of imagining have never given him this much detail. He _knows_ , now, how his brother feels, how his body seems to try and cling to Dean’s fingers as they pull out, how Sam’s eyes roll back when he slides back in, how Sam jolts and cries out, sharp, when Dean brushes something inside him that can only be his prostate.

There’s no going back now.

A third finger, and Sam is panting like he’s running a marathon, shoving back against Dean’s hand as he plunges in and out. Dean’s got his other hand wrapped around his dick, stroking himself in a roughly matched rhythm, and he’s gonna blow his load soon if they don’t move things along.

Sam makes a sound then, something a bit too harsh to be pleasure, and Dean freezes. “What, Sammy?” he says carefully, scared to move. Sam’s eyes fly open wide. “He’s - back. He’s in my head again.” He whimpers, just a little, but it’s enough to make Dean’s blood boil with rage instead of need. “He doesn’t like this,” Sam goes on, staring at nothing. “He’s not happy that he got shut up.”

Dean pulls out, fingers sticky with lube, and positions himself between Sam’s knees, lining himself up at his brother’s entrance. No time for hesitation now. He takes hold of Sam’s chin with his clean hand, shakes gently until Sam’s eyes focus on him. “Let’s drown him out, then. Like you said.”

"Dean,” Sam breathes, and Dean pushes forward, cock sliding past the ring of muscle, sheathing himself in tight wet heat.

He goes slow, careful, watching the way Sam’s eyes slide shut, revelling in the whimper that is so different from the one earlier. He bottoms out, hips flush against Sam’s ass, focusing on the insane clutch of his brother’s body. “Sammy…”

“Fuck, Dean.” Sam fights his eyes open, and they’re clear and focused on Dean, desire and love shining through so brightly that Dean feels his chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with sex. “You feel amazing.”

“Sam,” Dean tries again, tries to say something meaningful, something that can express the feelings that are coursing through his body. But his mind has always been one track, _SammySammySammy_ all his life, and joined the way they are, he can’t derail that train. “ _Sammy_.”

“Fuck me, Dean,” Sam whispers, and his legs wrap around Dean’s waist, pulling him even deeper. Dean lets out a sound that he’ll identify later as a sob, much to his own embarrassment, and obeys his brother’s command.

He draws back and snaps his hips forward, setting a rhythm of deep, slow strokes. Sam twists under him, clutching at his shoulders. “Dean, Dean, ngggh.”

Somewhere in his lizard brain, Dean crows at the fact that he’s reduced his verbose brother to nothing more than guttural moans and his own name. He doesn’t voice his triumph, however, because he’s in the same boat, only able to grit out “Fuck, Sam, Jesus Christ” as he thrusts, burying himself deeper every time.

Sam hauls one leg up onto his shoulder and Dean takes a second to marvel at his brother’s flexibility. When he shoves back in, Sam snaps taut under him, a harsh gasp torn from deep in his chest, and Dean realizes he’s in the perfect position to nail Sam’s prostate. He alters his movements, keeps his thrusts short and sharp, straining to stay in the same spot. Sam’s head tosses on the pillows, tendons in his neck standing out starkly.

Dean twists his hips as he pounds back in and Sam utters a low cry as he comes, striping his own chest and belly with white streaks.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Dean gasps, feeling the rhythmic clenches of Sam’s body around him as his brother rides out his orgasm. “Holy fuck fuck fuck.”

He’s done for, now; gets in two more pumps before burying himself as deep as he can, and feels his own release rip through his body like someone is yanking his spine out through his dick. “Sam, _Sam_ ,” he cries - literally, he can feel tears prickling in his eyes. “Sammy, fuck.”

Spent, trembling and feeling like his bones have turned to rubber, he manages to gather enough neurons to pull out and collapse to the mattress, dragging Sam with him out of the wet spot. They lie, still tangled together, until they can breathe normally again.

“Is he - ?” Dean’s almost afraid to ask, but Sam smiles, eyes closed. “He’s gone. Or quiet. Either way, it doesn’t matter.”

He twists in Dean’s loose embrace, burrowing close, and of course Sam’s a cuddler. Dean rolls his eyes, but lets Sam wriggle in close, wraps his arms around broad shoulders because he’ll die before he admits it, but he’s a cuddler too.

“Thank you,” Sam murmurs against his neck, and Dean kisses his temple. “Never need to thank me, Sammy.”

“Mmm,” Sam hums, and he’s close to sleep, Dean knows. He tightens his embrace, because he can, not because he needs to.

Let the Devil try and come back for his brother’s mind. He’ll find Dean there too, just as he always is.


End file.
